


My Time Among the Death Eaters, and other stories

by Kataclysmic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP: EWE, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 03:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kataclysmic/pseuds/Kataclysmic
Summary: Draco winked – actuallywinked- before turning back to the next daft witch in the queue, clutching the book to her chest and beaming at Draco. He was worse than Gilderoy Lockhart in his prime.When Draco Malfoy releases his autobiography, Hermione is suddenly very anxious that she knows what its pages contain before anybody else.





	My Time Among the Death Eaters, and other stories

Hermione stormed into Flourish and Blotts. Yes: stormed. She made no bones about it. Normally she would meander - she enjoyed browsing the shop – and sometimes she would even hurry, but on this occasion storming was in order. She had walked past  _Draco Malfoy’s_  skinny, smirking sodding face, beaming from a poster that took up the entire window display of her favourite shop, emblazoning today’s date and by Merlin she had  _stormed_.  
  
She had never seen the bookshop quite so busy, at least, not since Gilderoy Lockhart retired from his adventures in self-publicity. Now it seemed Draco Malfoy had taken up the mantle. At least fifty witches, from young Hogwarts girls to women older than Hermione’s mother, were standing in line, clutching their brand new copies of  _My Time Among the Death Eaters_. Hermione didn’t know whether to laugh or cover her mouth to stop herself being sick. This was just ridiculous.  
  
Draco had always been spoilt, selfish and arrogant, even after he had joined the Order in what would have been their seventh year at Hogwarts. Quite why anyone would want to read seven hundred pages of him talking about himself was beyond her. What they might read about  _her_  in those pages unnerved her. She stormed to the front of the queue.  
  
“I need to talk to you. Now.”  
  
Draco looked up and he gave her that smirk. The practically patented Malfoy smirk that had been making silly girls go weak at the knees for the last fifteen years. That same bloody smirk he used to give her at Grimmauld Place, sliding his foot along her thigh beneath the cover of the dinner table. The same smirk he would deliver when she’d slip into the living room, five minutes after him, following their snatched ten minutes alone. The smirk that told her he was thinking about her naked.  
  
In Grimmauld Place, and those few months after the war they spent at Hogwarts, that smirk would make her face blush and her body flush, a tight heat soaring through her, settling in a tight clench at the thought of him. Now though – Hermione glared. She successfully fought the schoolgirl blush and  _glared_. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say the same for combating the other feelings that damn smirk elicited in her.  
  
“Ahh Granger, want a signed copy I see?”   
  
Draco turned to the next silly girl in the queue. “What was the name – ahh, Dear Eleanor,” he wrote aloud, “Thanks for your support. Love DM.”  
  
Hermione caught sight of the overly posed photograph on the book jacket as Draco flicked the cover open. The sight was enough to make her snigger. Loose fitting jumper, sleeves rolled up, lounging casually against bookcase,  _spectacles_.  
  
The girl  _giggled_. Hermione rolled her eyes.  
  
Eleanor skipped away, squealing to her friend waiting in the entrance to Flourish and Blotts. Bookshops were supposed to be  _quiet_ , not as giggly as a fifth year girl’s’ dormitory in Hogwarts.  
  
“Well I’m afraid you can’t push to the front of the queue just because you feature in my chronicles.”  
  
That was exactly what Hermione had been afraid of.  
  
Draco winked – actually  _winked_  - before turning back to the next daft witch in the queue, clutching the book to her chest and beaming at Draco. He was worse than Gilderoy Lockhart in his prime.  
  
Hermione craned her neck and observed that the line had in fact  _doubled_  in the few minutes she had spent vying for Draco’s attention. She would not queue to tell him off, though she was quite sure that after all of this he would positively love that.   
  
Hermione pushed past the few remaining girls in front of her, and lent forward on the table. “I don’t want a copy of your bloody book, Malfoy, I know more about you than anyone could ever wish to. I want to talk to you.  _Now._ ”  
  
Not waiting for a response, Hermione turned on her heel and proceeded to the back of the shop where she knew there was a little storeroom that would offer a modicum of privacy away from all of Draco’s fans. It was only when the door clicked shut and she felt a breath against her neck that Hermione realised how incredibly tiny the storeroom actually was – practically a cupboard, if she was honest.  
  
“Thank you, Malfoy,” Hermione said. She had to say something. Suddenly they were in an all too cramped, dark, dusty storeroom and Draco was unnervingly close. Hermione felt her chest drop as her breathing became shallow. This wasn’t quite how her Storming Plan was supposed to go.   
  
“Oh, I remember this – you always did like sneaking into dark corners with me, didn’t you Granger?” Draco said, as he examined the very tight storeroom. His bum brushed her fingers as he turned full circle to study the room. Hermione clenched her firsts.  
  
“Sod off.”  
  
“Calm down,” he replied, his face the very picture of innocence. “You were the one who dragged me in here.  _I_  didn’t corner  _you_  in some dark, secluded spot, now did I? In fact,” Draco went on, and rather annoyingly, his voice seemed to be having a similar affect on Hermione as his penmanship had had on those witches queuing outside, “In fact, as I recall it was exactly like this in the old days.”  
  
“That’s what I’m concerned about, Malfoy,” Hermione replied, choosing to ignore the fact that his recollection was spot on: an awful lot of their hormone filled, teenage trysts had been at her behest as she had dragged him into various closets and cubbies, but he had hardly been an unwilling participant. “Your recollection of the old days.”  
  
“Not much you can so about it now though, is there, Granger?” Draco craned his neck to seemingly get a better look at the titles above Hermione’s head. He was very, very close now. His neck was barely a breath away from her fact as he leaned over her. Hermione was positively terrified he would feel her shaky exhales as she tried to control her breathing. Then he drew back a little, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “They’re selling like hotcakes; everyone wants to know all about my darkest secrets.”  
  
Hermione’s shaky breaths took a turn for the worse and she inhaled sharply. That intimate tone of voice and the familiar scent of him overpowering the age-old smell of dusty books were doing very familiar things to Hermione’s body. It reminded her dusty closets, and of sneaking him into her room in Grimmauld Place while Ginny was sneaking into Harry’s. War had made them grow up fast, but they had still been teenagers, and some rules were always going to be broken.  
  
“What, how to piss off everyone you know in five easy steps?” she replied, massively impressed with herself for the scathing tone she managed to adopt. Mostly she wanted to see how his stubble felt against her cheek – he’d barely had stubble before, and now the dim light that filtered in from the dusty little window was catching it just so. Hermione wondered if a hasty plan had ever gone so wrong. It certainly wasn’t going  _well_.  
  
Draco shuffled a little closer – there really wasn’t room to step. “Now Granger, don’t be short. You and I could get along absolutely famously.”  
  
“Oh yes, I can imagine the headlines now. Draco Malfoy befriends a  _Muggleborn_. Rita Skeeter would have a field day.”  
  
“I think there’s enough ammunition in that book to keep her occupied for months,” he said, and there was a gleam in his eye she recognised from before. “Besides,” he continued, “You know me Granger – surely. You know  _that_  stuff means nothing. If you bothered to read the book instead of storming in here half-cocked, you would be even more certain of the fact.”  
  
“Yes, and if I ever need to gouge my eyes out but can’t quite bring myself to do it I’ll be sure to have a read. All I want to know is what you said about me in your bloody book! How much damage control am I going to have to do with Harry and Ron?”  
  
“Oh come on, it’s not like they have a brain between them – they’re not going to read it. They hate me.”  
  
“People will talk!” Hermione cried, and it sounded a little bit desperate.   
  
“You didn’t seem to care about that before,” Draco replied, a hint of that bloody smirk back on his face, and Hermione found a little piece of her angry with him for it.  
  
“You were the one who didn’t want me to tell anyone then! I was fine to shag in secret, but heaven forbid anyone actually  _find out_!”  
  
“ _That’s_  what this is about?!” Draco replied, and genuinely sounded a little surprised. Hermione was a little surprised herself – she hadn’t meant to tell him about that hurt from years and years ago. She hadn’t really been it aware it still bothered her. “Oh now, don’t start, I’ll have to get my violins out. You sound worse than  _Potter_ when he does one of those horrific memorial speeches.”  
  
Hermione’s bottom lip trembled. How did he go from making her so hot she thought she might implode to fighting back tears? She felt seventeen again.  
  
Draco looked seventeen again. Forget the stubble and the broader shoulders, forget the deeper voice and fine wrinkles pricking his eyes; he was confronted by a girl near tears and he looked  _terrified_. “Oh Merlin, come on. I’m  _sorry_ , okay Granger, I’m sorry that I was eighteen and stupid.”   
  
Hermione’s breath took flight of her chest as he leaned closer.   
  
“I’m fucking sorry that I didn’t want to let you tell anyone about what was going on between us. I wasn’t ashamed, as much as you’ll doubt that, but I was scared. And whether you choose to believe this or not, I didn’t want you tarred with the same smears that I’ve been carrying around for the past nine years.  
  
“And I know you probably think I’m a complete tosser, and I am aware this is far too late, but I would tell people about us now… if you’d let me. And I’m not so bad - there’s still a lot of people I’m better than, I’ll have you know. Weasley, for a start. He’s  _ginger_  for Merlin’s sake. How could you shag that? What if his over abundance of freckles were contagious? Actually, don’t get too close, you may still be carrying some sort of dormant contagion.”  
  
Hermione laughed, and sniffed a little, and then Draco lifted one side of his mouth, then the other, his eyes relaxed. Half smirk, half smile, and Hermione was a  _mess_.  
  
“Look, don’t be offended, but I hardly mentioned you. I was only trying to wind you up earlier.”  
  
“Hardly?”  
  
Out of nowhere, Draco produced a copy of the bloody book. “Read the top of page 482.”  
  
Hermione nervously took the book.   
  
_“And there I was, facing the startling realisation of turning triple agent. Hermione could die at any moment – she certainly would die if I didn’t intervene there and then. I had seconds to decide. Father would probably be proud, and the Dark Lord would certainly be pleased. Potter would blame me, and Weasley would probably try and kill me, but my ruse would remain in tact whether she lived or died. But the fact remained that I did not want her to die, and I knew that if I allowed it, it would be the kind of guilt that never left me.”_  
  
“That’s it?”   
  
“What do you mean, ‘That’s it’? You were my bloody salvation! It was after that day that you and I became proper friends. ‘That’s it’? For fuck’s sake, Granger!”  
  
Hermione bit her lip. She felt a little bit foolish. She had brashly marched into his book signing, his big day, physically dragged him away from his little table and golden quill. Her worries seemed a little bit unfounded now.  
  
“You know, we could give them something to  _really_  talk about, if you wanted?”  
  
There was half a second where Hermione didn’t have a clue what he meant before Draco leaned closer and his intentions became clear.  
  
There was still space between them; his cloak was only grazing against hers, making the fabric shift against her suddenly tense body. His lips were not yet on hers but she could feel his unsteady breath against her cheek. For all of his bravado he was still apparently as unsettled as she was.  
  
A second’s hesitation and he was closing in – there had probably been enough time to scream or slap or hex him, and that would have certainly been more appropriate to her Storming Plan. Instead, she found herself dropping her bottom lip just a fraction, inviting him to kiss her.  
  
As soon as his lips brushed hers, all signs of hesitancy fell away; Draco’s hands reached up to jaw, pulling her against him, and his mouth cleaved tightly to hers.  
  
Hermione moaned into the kiss. She couldn’t help it. Ten seconds and he had her moaning!  
  
Hermione rarely regretted her actions. Everything was researched, methodical, planned out. This… this was not. Her Storming Plan had been impulsive. Dragging him into the storeroom had been rather rash. Admitting that pain from years ago had certainly not been part of the plan. Even without her usual planning, she didn’t think she was going to regret this though, but Hermione decided, as Draco’s hands began skimming her body, that if she was going to be sorry, she may as well be very sorry indeed.  
  
Hermione brought her arms up to reach around Draco’s neck and pulled him even closer; they were pressed right up against one another and it was delicious. Draco’s tongue slid against her open mouth and Hermione shuddered against him, into him, grasping at his neck, his back, his bum, anything she could reach to get enough leverage to pull him closer.  
  
When Draco pulled away for a split second to chuckle at her, Hermione wouldn’t even bring herself to be annoyed at his amusement, merely the absence of his mouth on hers.  
  
Hermione was approaching oblivion. Draco’s mouth had resumed doing absolutely wonderful things against hers – things she hadn’t forgotten, but hadn’t let herself remember. Need shot through her when he caught her bottom lip between his teeth; heat pooled deep and low in her belly; and Hermione wriggled and bucked against Draco.  
  
Stumbling backwards, Hermione pulled Draco with her. They were a completely tangled, uncoordinated mess of sexual frustration. When Draco stumbled into her, continuing forward where the bookcase prevented Hermione from backing up any further, Hermione’s thighs seemed to part entirely of their own accord. Draco’s hips pressed hard into hers.  
  
His hands clutched at her hips and lifted her so she was half seated on the bookcase, half wrapped around him. Hermione rocked up and down against him. She knew where this was heading; while Draco hadn’t wanted to go public when they were younger, he’d had no qualms about sex in public places.  
  
Hermione felt her entire body quake against him. His body shifted against hers with every angle of his kiss, and Hermione’s thighs trembled around his hips; the way he moved against her was absolutely agonising.  
  
“You always were eager, weren’t you Granger?” Draco whispered in her ear. His hand slid up her thigh.   
  
“Don’t confuse eagerness with easiness,” she replied against his mouth, and batted away the fingers that were playing with the hem of her knickers. She loathed doing it; in fact, she quite wanted him inside her knickers, but the knowledge of the throng of witches awaiting his autograph just about kicked Hermione’s sanity into place.  
  
Draco traced the shell of her ear with his tongue, and when he nibbled on her ear lobe Hermione’s shaky grasp on sanity threatened to slip. “What are you on about Granger? You don’t want to wait; I know exactly how wet I make you.”  
  
“You made me wait nine years,” she told him primly, ignoring the hot jolt of desire that shot straight to her core at the way he said  _wet_  with such intimate familiarity. It took every ounce of willpower, Gryffindor determination and years of facing impossible situations, but Hermione managed to push him away from her and slide down from the bookcase.  
  
“I was protecting you!” Draco murmured, and punctuated each word with a step closer, pushing Hermione back up against the bookcase.  
  
“And now,” Hermione said, and wiped away a smudge of her tinted lipbalm from the corner of Draco’s mouth, “I am protecting myself from the witches who would probably attack me if they knew I shagged Draco Malfoy in a storeroom while they waited outside.”  
  
“It is true,” Draco replied,  _smirking_. “I do inspire riot behaviour in women.”   
  
Hermione laughed, and smiled up at Draco. He took only a couple of steps back so he was close, but not towering over her as he had moments ago.  
  
“I’d like to see you, properly,” Draco then told her, quite seriously.   
  
A fluttering sensation overtook her stomach; the steady breathing that she had just managed to control took flight; her knees felt like she had a sudden case of the Jelly Legs jinx. Hermione hadn’t really thought about him, not properly, in years. Her Storming Plan had arisen from a leftover feeling from her youth… seeing him again - seeing him properly – would not be impetuous, nor rash; it would be planned. It would be a  _date_. And she rather liked the idea.  
  
When she didn’t respond he added: “I’ll even give you a signed copy of my book?”  
  
Hermione grinned. “Keep your book. You can tell about your adventures yourself.”  
  
The sight of his slightly giddy smile made Hermione completely forget about her love-hate relationship with the smirk that toyed with his mouth and want to start kissing him all over again.  
  
“I’ll send you an owl,” she said, gliding out of the storeroom.  
  
\- end.


End file.
